Bloody Corridors
by AVeryEducatedIndividual
Summary: Haunted by taunting voices, Christine flees her hometown in Sweden to go to France... But before she makes it there she gets swept up into a cruel world of abuse and mental illness. Amidst the choas, she meets a man named Erik. E/C
1. Prologue

In Sweden, Christine only had her father, mother, and a vast collection of porcelain dolls. Her mother never left the house due to certain... circumstances, and her dear father only came home to tell Christine about the _Fantastiska Opera_ which he played at. Her father was fiercely protective of her mother, even when concerning his own daughter. Therefore, the two ladies never spoke to one another.

This left Christine with her dolls.

Christine had a name for every doll, and sought to make all her children feel more loved the Christine could ever hope to feel. She took them to the snow to teach them about France and the world beyond the miles of bleak, bitter white snow. She kept her dolls in perfect condition, making sure none of them were to break. Ever. Her dolls each carried a piece of her heart, a piece she would never be able to recover without them.

On the day of the midnight sun, she read to her dolls for hours, cherishing the precious light in order to play with them longer. Her mother was smiling down at her, dusting the shelf where they all sat. A careless mistake was made by her mother, an unforgivable mistake.

In slow motion, the blunt handle of the duster nudged the dolls arm, managing to create a small crack on the previously unblemished doll arm. A small clink resulted from this action, drawing a resounding scream from Christine's lips. She ran to the doll, shoving her own mother aside to tend to Charlotte.

 _nonononononononononononononoNONONONONONONONONONONONONO NO! NO! NOOOO!_

Tears flowed freely from Christine's eyes, running down her cheeks and splashing onto Charlotte's injured arm. Christine slowly turned her head upwards to face her mother's tearful visage.

"Why?" Christine choked out, unable to think clearly.

 _YOU FAILED HER. YOU FAILED HER. YOU FAILED HER._

She could feel her mother's hand running up and down her back in a feeble attempt to comfort the young girl.

 _NO, IT'S ALL **HER** FAULT. ALL HER FAULT. ALL HER FAULT. ALL HER FAULT. Don't allow this WENCH to touch you. Christine! CHRISTINE!_

"DON'T TOUCH ME!" Screamed Christine, desperately trying to quiet the echoing voices. At this, her mother pulled away, dumbfounded.

Christine, however, couldn't have cared less about her mother at the moment, instead fully focused on the doll.

"Oh Charlotte..." She had felt so ashamed; she failed her child...

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'SHE SHOVED YOU" Her father was home. Soon she heard the stomping of his feet, which gradually grew louder until it stopped right at the doll shelf. Then, without warning, he seized poor Charlotte and threw her at the wall.

"NO!" He threw another doll.

"KAJSA!" Then another. And Another.

"LYNNA! ROSE!" She could feel her heart shattering as the doll did.

"PLEASE!" He continued to rant and throw, but it fell unto deaf ears.

The next doll flew right at her face, knocking out 3 baby teeth and cutting her white skin. Christine feel unconscious before she even scream.

Christine groaned as she awoke, looking in the mirror to find dried blood caked all over her face, leaving a hideous brown crust going down her mouth, and rust colored lines along her cheeks.

 _Blood._

Christine had never seen blood before, but she hated the old, muddy color. It was then that her dormant nosebleed started up again, allowing a ruby red stream to flow down her face.

 _Blood..._

It was beautiful, vibrant, and oh so full of life. The taste was awful, but the sight was awe-inspiring.

 _HIS blood..._

His blood would be beautiful too, dripping down his throat...

 _Yes..._

No! She couldn't... Christine began to search through the porcelain shards, hoping to find a doll unscathed, then she found a particularly sharp shard.

 _Take his life! Bathe in his blood!_

"Shut up!" She said aloud, oops.

 _KILL HIM! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! DO IT!_

Christine grabbed the shard and stood, appeasing the voices.

 _YES!YES!YES!_

She slowly creeped into her father's room, pausing only to shut the door behind her.

Then she broke out of the trance with a gasp, running far away into her room. Once there, she grabbed her piggy bank, her cloak, a brush, and her favorite blue dress. She had to go to where she couldn't hurt anybody. She had to go to France.


	2. The First Train

After hours of walking to the nearest train station, Christine finally caught a train to the station farthest South, where she could take a ferry to Copenhagen, then (with some luck) she could catch a train to France. She sighed in relief, knowing she had everything under control.

 _Blood..._

Everything except that infuriating little voice. She wanted to cry just thinking about it; it was all the voices' fault she had to leave! She hated it! What had she done to deserve these voices demanding blood and tormenting her?

 _I can think of a few things, starting with the fact that-_

 _"_ Stop..." Christine weakly muttered, she hated herself for allowing the voice to hurt her. She adjusted to a more confident stance, mustering up the courage to ask where the restroom is. "Pardon me sir, where may I find the restroom?"

"Sorry young miss, the only restroom is all the way up there near first class, at the front of this ol' thing"

"I see" Christine said quietly, beginning her trek to very front of the train with broken spirits. Her heart still throbbed painfully when she thought about her children's demise. She wanted so badly to cry, but she couldn't embarrass herself in front of all these people.

 _BLOOD!_

The voices resurged with a new strength, and no matter how hard Christine tried to block them out, she just couldn't.

 _Blood! BLOOD!_

They all echoed and overlapped, creating dissonance with the pitches they screamed at. Her walk fastened to a run as she tried foolishly to outrun the voices

 _You will never escape! NEVER ESCAPE! No escape..._

She seemed to be running forever, leaving confused and upset passengers in her wake. Until finally, she saw the door within her sight. Christine ran to the bathroom door and slammed it shut behind her, not realizing someone was already inside.

"Why hello there little lady, you wanna have some fun?" She tried backing away, but it proved useless considering the small area.

"Oh, I am dreadfully sorry sir, I will just leave now" The 12 year old girl blushed, noticing his... area as he turned his body away from the toilet in order to face her.

"You are goin' nowhere, sweetcheeks" Christine looked up at the man, terrified.

 _BLOOD! BLOOD! Blood! Blood! Blood! BLOOD! BLOOD! BLOOOOOOODD! KILL HIM!_

For once, Christine listened, and took the porcelain shard from her bag in a blind panic as the man advanced towards her, not stopping to trifle with frivolous questions of morality.

"My my, what a nice little bosom you ha-" The man was cut off by Christine shoving the shard into his throat, creating a gurgling sound and drawing massive amounts blood when ripped out.

 _Yes..._

Christine watched as blood gushed forth from the man's throat, warm and a beautiful maroon in color, his blood was the texture of silk with a sticky after effect. It flowed for about ten seconds before slowly dying out, taking the man's life along with it.

"What have I done?" She cried, weeping about the man who just had his life stolen by her.

 _You KILLED a man you STUPID WEAK UGLY BITCH!_

Christine only cried harder in response.

 _You SICK PYSCHO BASTARD!_

She cried until her tears were all spent, then she decided to search through the man's pockets with a heavy heart, broken soul, and tearstained face.


	3. I Hate Them

**A/N: Please review if you have any criticism or ideas for this fic. I could also reeeaaaally use a beta if anyone is interested. Thanks for my first reviewer: Swishy-capes! Enjoy...**

It appeared the man had been French, for she had found 50 francs in his pocket, along with a pistol, some Kronas, and a picture of-

 _You MONSTER_

His family. This man had a family. He had a wife who loved him, children who _needed_ him. Who was Christine to rip away from them in one fowl swoop? She felt so sick, she couldn't take it. The voices were screaming louder and louder and louder. It felt like nails on a chalkboard, like-

 _Like porcelain shattering.._

"No!" Christine felt her chest tightening as her heart raced. What was happening to her? Tears began streaming down her face, blurring her vision. Every sense was magnified to the point of pain. She could taste her tears, hear her ragged breathing, feel the porcelain shard, smell his _blood._

 _His blood..._

His blood that started this whole ordeal in the first place now assaulted her nose with a metallic tang forcing itself in her head and it refused to be pushed out. She was trapped in her head with those voices. Trapped, trapped, trapped, trapped, trapped, trapped, trapped! Trapped! TRAPPED!

Her breath came in short gasps between sobs; she hated this. She hated _life._ She hated it so much, these voices just won't stop and she hates it. She hates it she hates it she hates it. They won't stop, stop, stop, stop, stop, STOP! What sort of torture was this? Was this what hell felt like? It must be. Christine must have gone to hell for her crimes. That is the only explanation for this madness in her head. The tears poured heavily as she choked back the screams threatening to rip from her throat. Her chest was _burning._ Her thoughts were flying. Voices belittled her and pierced her broken soul with razor-sharp barbs. She could only vaguely hear the conductor call that the train was due at the next station.

The train. She was on a train. She had to leave. _Now._ Christine quickly wiped her tears away and quietly left the bathroom. She could feel the gazes of First Class settling on her back as she left. She could distinctly remember running past all these people in a flurry of colors and sounds. Her face reddened as she silently walked between the aisles of passenger, hoping fervently none will approach her and ask about the whole fiasco. She hoped even more fervently no one would walk in to the bathroom before she departed to the port.

Her senses were still on high alert from the previous incident, and she could hear all the pretentious coughs and indignant snorts along with ladies shuffling away from her and men grumbling under her breath. They were watching her.

 _They HATE you, they know you're a MURDEROUS FUCKING WHORE._

Christine resisted the urge to clasp her hands over her ears and scream. It was hard to not do so given the current situation, and harder yet was to not just give up on herself and sleep forever.

 _DO IT! JUMP OFF THIS TRAIN AND DESTROY YOUR PITIFUL EXSISTENCE!_

Her walk got a tad quicker at the last remark, and no matter what, she absolutely refused to remember what she had listened to before her earlier nap. She doesn't want to remember. As long as she lived, she would never remember, she just won't, she won't, she won't, she won't, she won't, she won't, she wo-

Her dreadful reverie was broken by the sudden jerk of the train, leaving Christine at the mercy of physics. Cold, unfeeling, stubborn physics. This left Christine unconscious on the floor of the train, and when she awoke, she saw her mother.

Her mother, blind eye, bubbling flesh, and all.

"What have you done Christine!"

 **A/N: Please review. Pretty please? I'll reply! I promise!**


	4. The Oven Incident

**_250 views! 100 visitors! I must be dreaming, you guys are AMAZING! Have an extra long chapter for amazingness. Finished the cover art too, so yeah..._**

 ** _I will always reply to reviews if the site gives me the option._**

 _8 years prior_

Christine giggled as her mother pushed her on their makeshift swing, happy and without a care in the world. She held Charlotte in her arms, cradling her in a motherly embrace. Her mother's eyes sparked with glee, ecstatic to see her daughter so happy, but she knew how to make that day _perfect_.

"Who wants to bake a Prinsesstårta?" Her mother teased. At this the younger lady squealed in delight, already on her way to the kitchen to make the beloved dish. Her mother stood behind, watching the young girl with delight. She only wished her father could be there to see their daughter grow up, but they had to make a living somehow, and Per Ingvar's violin skills simply could not be denied. Sadly, the nearest Opera was nearly a Kilo away, and a house in the city cost far too much, certainly more than a musician's salary allows. Of course, Per always came by to teach Christine music. Oh! How Christine loved to sing; whenever she heard music her face lit up, the she sang with her little voice. It was high and clear like a bell's! She hoped Christine would grow to be a Prima Donna and dazzle the world with talent.

She slowly walked over to their small house, recalling the first time she had ever seen Christine's father, Per Ingvar Daae. The man she loved with all of her heart. They were both young, no more than 15 when they first met. She was alone by the lake, quietly singing when, much to her surprise, a violin accompanied her. Together they made music (amateur and very out of pitch, but music nonetheless). She called to the man, asking him to reveal himself, and he did. Their parents heard of the mutual fondness and "arranged" a marriage between the two. Less than two years later, they had a daughter and a small home. She longed to sing just once with Christine and Per, as a family.

But for now she would settle humming while little Chrissy mixed the ingredients with a small fire in her eyes...

Fire.

Oh goodness! She left Christine alone, that little girl was too determined for her own good, she was sure Christine had lit the fire to get the oven warm. Ordinarily that would have been fine, but she hadn't taught the girl how dangerous fire was yet, she had to get to Christine, before it was too late!

()()()()()()()()()()()()

Christine couldn't run to the kitchen fast enough; it was months since she last baked a cake! She loved the princess cake especially, and today she would show her mom that she could heat up the stove all by herself. It was the ultimate triumph in young Christine's mind, to do such a thing without any adult to help her. She was too naïve to realize the danger involved with fire, fancying the pretty light to be a good thing. And one could never have too much of a good thing. She already knew where the matches were, so lighting it would be easy, right? It was a matter of pride to adults, not one of safety.

Because fire was not dangerous.

Right?

So with a confident spirit she dashed to the house, leaping over any stone daring to cross her path. Christine threw the door open, not bothering to close it, and began the seemingly miniscule task of lighting the fire. The drawer was forced open by her tiny hands and scrounged through until a small box came into contact with Christine's hand. Quickly grabbing the box, she fumbled with the box in her hurry to light the fire, and spilled all the matches out of the thing. She huffed in annoyance and snatched one from the ground, determined to waste no time. Now striking the match would be the difficult part, but Christine had no doubt she woud be able to handle it.

Mama and papa would be so proud! Their little girl, so grown-up and _mature._ She could feel the warmth of their gazes as they looked upon her already. "Oh Christine, you are the best daughter in the whole world!" She could practically hear them praising her already. They would just love it. She finally managed to light the match and skipped on her way to light the oven. Mother would just adore her even more now. She lit the oven, marveling at how quickly the fire spread. Subconsciously, her hand reached for the flame, longing to be one with the red embers.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

She burst through the door, nearly sighing in relief to see Christine unharmed. Then she saw her arm, which was extended outwards, nearly touching the flame. She had to act quickly, or not at all. Her mother leaped at Christine, hoping to save her from the fire at all costs. She shoved with all her might, and managed to push Christine safely away from the fire. She, unfortunately, hit her head hard against the top oven wall, leaving her cheek against the flame. She could only remember a distinct burning sensation before it all faded to black.

()()()()()()()()()()()()()

Christine barely had time to recover from being thrown before she saw her mother sleeping on the oven, but something wasn't right. Her mommy's face looked weird, it was pink and angry. It seemed a little bubbly, like skin soap.

"Mommy?" No response. "Mommy wake up!" Christine was really scared, she didn't want to make cake anymore, she wanted mommy. "Mommy please!" She cried, but to no avail.

"Susan?" Dad was home, dad would help, dad knows what to do. "Christine!" He ran when he looked at the scene before him.

"Christine, what happened?" She couldn't speak. She couldn't move. He pulled her mother from the oven, tears brimming in his eyes.

 _You STUPID girl, you killed her! You might as well kill your father too!_

"What have you done Christine!"


	5. Lies

**A/N: Hi guys! I hope y'all are enjoying the story. This chapter was really hard for me to write** **. Sorry for the delay... Well, I hope you enjoy the story anyway. Please review. It keeps me going.**

Christine awoke with a start, tears streaming down her face from the memory.

 _See? You deserve your fate. You deserve ME._

 _"_ Shut up!" She said aloud, attracting the attention of passerbys and earning a few concerned stares as well. But Christine didn't care; she was going to give this little voice a piece of her mind!

 _I will NEVER shut up! I believe it us time for you to learn your place you FUCKING BITCH!_

"IT'S MY MIND AND I CAN DO WHAT I WANT!"

 _You are my PUPPET... You will do as I say!_

 _"_ No No No No No No No NO!" Her futile screaming did nothing but accumulate even more people. Some people in the crowd began to run and search for the authorities.

 _I could make you KILL again..._

 _"_ NO! Please don't... PLEASE!" Christine's hoarse cry echoed in the train, and her tears flowed faster and faster and faster and she wanted to die and she didn't want to hurt them! She swears she doesn't. She doesn't. She doesn't. She doesn't. She doesn't. She doesn't!

 _Eenie Meenie Miene MO..._

It was then she spotted the conductor racing towards her, yelling. "What're you doing! Answer me!" The conductor shook Christine lightly by the shoulders. She only sobbed harder in response, unable to form words with her broken mind.

"That's it, we're taking you to Denmark, there's the nearest Looney Binn"

"NO!" Christine choked out. She remembered exactly what happened at the asylums in her books...

Her books, she missed her books. She missed her dresses. She missed her parents! She missed her dolls! She ached to be with her family again, no matter how flawed! She wanted them back!

 _Blood..._

No

 _Yes... His BLOOD!_

 _"_ NONONONONONONONONONONONO-" The conductor picked her small body up and swung it over his shoulder, paying no mind to her childish denial. He inwardly groaned as he walked; this was going to be a _long_ walk.

.

.

Christine woke again, albeit even more confused then ever. Where was she? She carefully examined her surroundings, wary of possible threats. The room was all white and...

Padded? Wait, what was going on? What was she wearing? Why was she here?

 _You goddamned WENCH! YOU ARE TRAPPED! TRAPPED!_

Trapped. Trapped. They were right. She was trapped. This shirt kept her arms bound near her waist, crushing any chance of escape. That wasn't a problem, her head felt much too foggy to think clearly anyway. She felt a dull ache from her thigh. Memories trickled back slowly. First through sound. The sound of screaming. The sound of interrogating voices.

 _The sound of a pistol shooting._

"SHUT UP!" She just couldn't take it any longer, not that that voice, nor this jacket, nor life itself! She wanted it to stop. Anything if they could just stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.

They didn't stop. Like an artist in a frenzy to paint, they allowed a flood of memories to pass, all sloshing and mixing and spilling. Together her senses created a grotesque picture. A picture of a courthouse where a judge proclaimed her to be not guilty. Where she was supposed to have murdered five men.

No, that's not right. Christine only killed one man. She would never hurt a fly. Right? Yeah, Christine is innocent because she did not do it. The judge said absolutely nothing about insanity. She is just getting changed in her room and fell. Right? This was all a dream, nothing more. A dream. A dream. A dream. A dream. That's it. She could call for her mom and say she loved her truthfully. No lies. All truth. Beautiful Truth was real. She was in the Ugly Lie. She could see her mom again, right here with her. She was talking. In real life. Right?

 **Christine, how could you do this to me!**

"Mom?" This was real, her mom was here. Then why was she so mean?

 **I only wanted you to love me, yet you simply denied me at every turn. And don't dare to apologize, for some sins are unpardonable.**

Then she was gone. She was a lie. Christine was done with lies! She cried. Crying. Crying could be a lie too! It was all one big, disgusting lie! All of it! Christine then made two simple vows in her hysteria. One to never lie. One to be nice to every soul, so no one will suffer due to her.

Unbeknownst to young Christine, she herself had killed those five men, along with several hospital staff members. Electroshock therapy had been administered, and she was become quite a liablilty. She cried for a few minutes before the murder, then she closed her eyes and attacked. It was odd. Some of the staff decided they could sell her off quite easily to some freak show. They waited so patiently for the gypsies to come to town. Taking care to keep Christine heavily drugged. It was another year of containment before she even saw another person. One whole year. Alone.

At the same a young man in a cage heard of a new arrival... How peculiar.


	6. Desolation

**A/N: Thank you all so much for 600 views, I really couldn't feel more happy. I would also like to thank my regular reviewers for brightening my day. Inspiration just struck me and I am but a slave to my impulses. This chapter still dwells on before Erik and Christine will meet. Plus, I realized my great great grandfather's name was Eric (yes, with a c) and he lived in Sweden. I thought that was a cool coincidence... Anyway, on with the story.**

.

.

He was used to the way life was. If he was lucky he got a meal every day, perhaps more if he played along with the gypsies' sick game. But Erik wouldn't stoop that low. Even though he looked the part of a vile, unfeeling monster, he prefered to act like a real gentleman.

Ha! _Gentleman._ Erik knew he didn't classify as a man, despite his dreams. Gentleman shouldn't even be a word in his vocabulary. It was in his vocabulary however, along with all the other marvelous knowledge he had gained in the ten years prior to his capture. His father adored him, unlike his mother, and educated him on all aspects of life. Erik's true genius shone under his father's care. No instrument was a match for little Erik, and certainly no magic trick unlearnable. Ventriloquy was quite a pain to master however. He sighed as he picked at the bread he recieved earlier. He was well aware that if he didn't eat quickly then his bread would be seized. It didn't matter. He wasn't hungry anyway.

Nothing really mattered.

God! Erik wished he studied lockpicking! He spent five years in that hellhole and he was tired...

So tired, but he refused himself the luxury of sleep. There was no rest for the wicked after all. He allowed his mind to drift though, pondering the information he had learned at breakfast. Javert mentioned that he would have a new arrival. They described them as "a freak straight from the asylum", and that could mean a lot of things. From what he has heard about asylums, you could be in there for nearly any reason imaginable. And it gave no indication to the age of the person. So many possibilities... He spent hours thinking about it, but remained as puzzled as ever.

In the end, Erik stopped wondering and granted himself a brief spell of sleep. God knows he would need it.

.

.

Less than a week after Christine's initial realization, she woke up in a smaller room. Thankfully, they had removed that dreadful shirt. And the walls were no longer a bland white, but a dull gray. She gave a small whimper as she massaged her sore shoulders. Every muscle ached and her clothes were filthy. The small cot was terribly mangled too.

 _It's only what you deserve... Christine._

They were right. She had accepted that the voices were not forces to be reckoned with. They could make her believe all her girlish fantasies, then rip them away. They could exploit her every weakness, for they were in her head. She dealt with them in her own small way. She discovered that if she thought of everything good in her life, the barbs hurt less. If she obeyed their requests, then the barbs ceased for a little. And if she combined the two, life became bearable.

So she focused on the good things. She tried to ignore the bleakness of the room. It was so very dull... So dull. Dull. Dull. Dull.

The voices even recognized how dull it was. They sought to "correct" that.

 _So it's dull?_

Silence.

 _ANSWER ME!_

"Y-yes" Christine stammered in fear. She didn't want this to happen again. Not now. Not now. Not now. Not now. Not now! No! NOT NOW!

 _If you listen to me, it will never feel dull again..._

She was surprised. Normally they would torture her with visions of her parents, or attack her for her flaws in character or _something._ But this...

She was interested. So then, under careful instructions, she gently rolled up her left sleeve, then she picked up the knife that had been brought in with her breakfast and brought it towards her left forearm. Then she hesitated.

 _I knew you were too weak to do it. That's all you are, a WEAK, UGLY, STUPID, UNGRATEFUL BRAT!_

 _You are weaker than a twig, stupid as a rock, and you make a mutt look like a Goddess. Now repeat exactly as I say._

Christine just nodded, her face flooded with tears.

 _I am weak, defenseless, stupid child._

"I-I am weak, defenseless, st-stupid child." She choked out. It hurt so much, like thorns in her chest.

 _I have killed out of pure bloodlust like an animal._

"I have k-k-killed out of pure b-bloodlust like an a-animal. _"_ Her chest was on fire. Every breath stung.

 _I am far uglier than any animal, and no man deserves to be stuck with a heartless wench like me._

"I am far u-uglier than any animal, and no man deserves to be stuck with a h-h-heartless w-wench like m-m-me." Her fists clenched as she forced the words. Deep down she knew each one was true.

 _I deserve all the pain I recieve, and much more._

"I deserve all the p-p-pain I recieve, and- a-a-and m-much more." God, it hurts, it hurts so badly. She has never felt pain like this, not even when her dolls were broken. It feels like hot pokers going into her soul. She hates it.

 _Good, now take the knife, press down firmly, and slowly drag it._

Christine had no choice but to obey. It hurt much less than saying those awful things. And the reward was blood. Vivacious, red, dripping blood. The sight made her mouth water. She let out a sigh of relief. Her blood was warm and silky to the touch. It felt wonderful. It was so much better than saying those things. She basked in the sight of it until it eventually dried. She rolled her sleeve back down and slipped into sleep.

The next day she did the exact same thing. In fact, on any day Christine felt dull or she felt lonely or any other emotion for that matter; the voice nade her say each sentence over again, punctuating it with a red line across her wrist. Some days she would scream and try to block out the voice, but it never worked.

Then one day, a man came in. She smiled brightly at the man, who in turn pressed a funny smelling rag to her face. Figures.

.

.

Erik nearly gasped as he saw the man carry in the new arrival. She was- They were- what?

He was dumbfounded. In the man's arms was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. They were no gypsy, her skin was remarkably pale, too pale. Her hair was chestnut in color, falling down her back in dainty curls. Her face and clothes were dirty as his, if not dirtier. And in her unconscious state, she looked like a porcelain doll. There was only one problem. She was not a woman. A girl? Yes. A young lady? Perhaps. But a Woman? No.

His heart shattered. How dare they call such a pretty thing a freak? How could they dream of locking her up in a place like this? She was much too good for this, and much, much too young. The world had every right to be cruel to a freak of nature like Erik, but not this budding blossom in front of him. He only sighed as he imagined what might possibly be wrong with such an angel... Well, he may soon find out.

 **Please review. Pretty Please?**


	7. Confusion

**A/N: Hey, sorry for making them suffer so much, I'm a bit of a sadist... Thanks for reading! They** **will** **actually meet in a couple chapters, so rest assured.**

 **.**

 **.**

The first thing she noticed was her bed. It felt a little scratchy... and lumpy. Where was her blanket?

It was then she remembered the strange man, along with small snippets of dialogue. Her eyes fluttered open when she realized she was no longer in the asylum. For a moment she believed she was no longer trapped with only the voices. She thought her solitude was over and she could talk to other people once more. She thought she wouldn't have to sleep next to a bucket of urine and feces without bathing. She thought that she didn't need to spend hours just brushing her hair.

All those thoughts hushed when she saw the gleam of the sun reflecting of the metal bars of her cage. Christine was once again trapped. Trapped. Trapped. Again. Again. Again! No! Not Again!

 _In a cage like the bloodthirsty ANIMAL you are._

 **No, my daughter is an angel: be** **autiful, innocent, and kind.**

Her mother appeared from the opening of the cage, slowy approaching the cage where her daughter was kept. Her hair shone like copper in the sunlight, drawing the attention away from her scarred face. Christine said nothing, but looked through the bars hopefully.

 **Christine, _min kärlek_. Come here.**

 **"** Y-you're not angry with me for... f-f-for-" She was cut off.

 **Of course not, _min kärlek,_ I could never stay mad at you. Now take my hand...**

She couldn't believe her words. Her mother forgave her? Did her mother hold those murders against her? Did she even know? Christine's hand inched towards that of her mother's, ready to beg forgiveness if needbe. Their hands were so close, and then-

 **You're no daughter of mine!**

Her mother's hand drew back sharply, and her face distorted in disgust.

 **You have killed! Not to mention doing _this_ to me! Angel indeed, an angel from hell! You truly disgust me. You know of your sins yet you were about to accept my love. You shall have no such thing! Not my love, nor anyone else's. **

Then she turned away briskly and left. To Christine, it felt like she had been stabbed through the heart. She was a fool. Only a fool could believed her mother forgave her. A fool! Her mother was right. They were all right! She was an angel of hell. Less than worthless, harmful even. Who had ever heard of an angel with bloodlust? She just wanted to give up. It felt like she was only alive to serve as some play-toy for her mind. Like she was their jester and slave in one. It was a terrible feeling.

 _Blood, you need blood! Claw the inside of your nose. That'll do it._

Once again, she hesistated.

 _Do it! Or else... I NEED blood._

Did she really have a choice anymore? Instinctively following their commands, she slowly dragged her nail into the sensitive flesh. In no time, she felt the rush of blood from the wound. She drew her finger from her nose, allowing the blood to drip on to her left palm. The sight produced the same reaction as always. She allowed the sensation to overwhelm her, blocking out all other senses.

She was not aware she had an audience.

.

.

Javert sighed as he counted the couns they had earned last night. Less people were showing up, but perhaps the girl could change that. The asylum's staff claimed she kills for no reason and whispers about blood, often going into screaming fits. It was quite dangerous to keep her. Maybe he should... Pay her a visit to assess the situation. Yeah, that works.

He marched over to the pale white tent she was being kept in and scoffed as he saw her whisper and reach out to some unseen specter.

Loon.

Then, to his suprise, she stuck her finger up her nose like a savage. It was vile, and when her finger came out, it was coated in blood. How strange. So it was something about blood... He decided to take a walk while thinking. It wasn't long before he had made his way into the city. Hardy more than an hour. As he listened to the chattering of children, an old urban legend reimerged in his mind. Yes. Oh yes. That definitely works. He was going back to camp. He had to tell the others of the girl's new title:

 _Bloody Mary._

 _._

 _._

The rest of the afternoon was spent preparing for the show. Erik watched with dread, unable to think of anything except the girl in the tent beside from his. Will she be okay? How will she handle it? Would they beat her? The very thought of the gypsies beating the girl made his blood boil. If only he weren't in this damned cage!

 _He_ was used to this kind of life, he felt an urge to protect the innocent girl. It was absurd to think the girl could be anything except perfect, so why was she here? Was it something wrong with her legs? Was she unable to function properly and therefore acted strangely? Did she speak to people who weren't there? His thoughts were racing. He needed answers, but he had no way to get them. He would only be able to hear portions of what was happening during his show, and he would surely be beaten if he asked his- a shiver ran through his body- _master_.

He grit his teeth; that was a title for people who deserved respect. And Javert _did not_ deserve respect.

He had been so wrapped up in his thoughts that he scarcely noticed the setting sun. The sun which signaled the beginning of the longest night of Christine's life...

So far.

 **Please review, it really helps. Even if you absolutely hate it, just tell me what I did wrong. Please, please, please, pleeeaaaase review. I'll reply and answer any questions you have so long as you review.**


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